Just Like Magic
by CarnelianKiss
Summary: Non-Magic AU: He was handsome, sure. Obviously. With a permanent, almost unnaturally charming smile. But those eyes. His eyes are cold—too cold, and it seems only Harry can sense their underlying frigidity. Slash. TRHP.
1. Chapter 1

**T**hin, bruised hands held him back, tilting his small body tauntingly over the edge. He was weak, his limbs limp at his sides. He couldn't struggle if he wanted to, he had no control—a puppet whose strings were splayed out, ready to be cut.

Black eyes staring coldly into his own. 

"Help me."

But Harry couldn't speak, all the air was gone from within him, his chapped lips moving soundlessly.

A pressure at his neck, tightening to a chokehold at his already sore throat. He couldn't see; his sight blurring from the lack of oxygen. He felt more than acknowledged the wet streak than ran down his cheek. The blurry soulless eyes seemed to track the moment. And then the pressure was gone.

He let go.

And then he was falling, falling, _falling _—

X:-::x::-:X

Harry woke wide-eyed with a gasp that sucked the air from his lungs. He turned on his side, coughing roughly. Pressing a hand to his damp forehead, he tried to reclaim the lost air, his sweat-streaked hair plastered to his pillow.

_…what in the bloody hell?_

Beside him the modest inn's spotted clock chirped excitedly. A bleary glance at the pink flashing numbers told him it was 5:00AM. On the dot. He groaned, wrapping himself in the tangle of peach colored sheets.

A childish whine curled in his throat. He pulled the endless bundle of cloth over his birds-nest of a head. He didn't want to get up yet. He felt like he'd hardly even slept.

He laid quietly for a moment longer, drawing patterns with pad of his index finger into the firm mattress. His hair was starting to stick to the back of his neck.

He frowned and rolled over to stare at the ceiling, the chills of his nightmare tickling his arms as the memory faded. Harry hadn't had a nightmare like that in a long time, so why so suddenly—_why now_?

Those cold black eyes glared at him from the corners of his mind; devoid of mercy, devoid of a soul. He shivered again and sat up to turn off the alarm clock. It was already 5:32.

If he wasn't quick he'd miss his train. And he _definitely_ wasn't going to let that happen.

X:-::x::-:X

Harry pulled his bags from the train cart, thanking the staff with a apologetic grin as the departing whistle blew sharply. Leaning against his trunk, he watched the red beast disappear from the station in a puff of thick, white smoke.

The train had been barren of students, expected, as the curriculum had began nearly a month before. Despite that, there had been a particularly kind male attendant who'd helped him get his bags above his head, as well as a sweet, grandmotherly woman who'd pressed candies into his hands halfway through the journey.

He was surprised to note he would miss the glittering, crimson vessel. The cab to London station could hardly be described as a magical experience, but the train! Wow. He didn't even want to think about how much the ticket would have been had his not been part of the scholarship fund.

Harry peaked at the crumpled map in his hands, then up at the dirt road before him. He groaned once more that morning. He thumped his way up the sharp hill, dragging his trunk behind him. The weathered leather sighed and groaned along with him at the rough handling.

The fresh Scottish air was crisp under his nose. It ruffled his still not-quite-dry locks from his speedy shower that morning. Harry chuckled briefly at the sudden memory of the farms they'd passed on the way to the secondary school.

He supposed himself lucky the school was on the outskirts of Scotland or else it'd be a finger under his nose rather than fresh air. A few minutes and the pulping sound of dirt and grass under his worn trainers gave way to cracked pavement and tiny rocks, hinting at further civilization. He took a deep breath and glanced up to face the next three years of his life.

The straps of his duffle bag slipped from his limp fingers, his trunk forgotten. It hit the smooth gravel in a satisfying _crunch, _but Harry was too immersed in what stood before him to give a shite.

Reflected in the deep, foreboding lake that spread wide before him was a magnificent structure. An architectured mesh of thick stone and brick; there were spiny turrets, and covered parapets, and _towers! _Good Lord_—_there had to be at least four of them_._

Stacks upon stacks of thick tiles scattered the countless rooftops. Even from what had to be at least a kilometer away, Harry could tell they'd been placed centuries before his father had ever caught wind of his mother's pretty face. The structure was supported by sprawling mountains that rested behind. An unnerving clump of spare-looking trees one might call a forest a dark shadow towards the west.

The historic monument before him wasn't a _school_. Harry gaped. Scrabbling to grab his bags and push his glasses back up, having slipped down his nose in a nervous sweat.

It was a bloody fucking _castle_.

* * *

><p>an: Er—hello there! I see you've decided to give this fic a go and I thank you greatly for that. ^_^

I'll use this space to acknowledge that I do not own any of the characters or familiar backstory that this fanfic is based on, the amazingly creative J.K. Rowling does. Also, this fic will include a slash main paring, as in a male/male relationship at some point in the story so please turn back now if you are not interested in reading. I have yet to decide if the slash paring will be particularly 'amorous' enough to warrant a M-rating, time will tell, as they say. I also do not have a beta for this story, thus if you find spelling mistakes/grammatical errors that are killing you softly feel free to add them to a review, though I do ask you write a little more in that little box below, other than my spelling errors ;).

Last of all, as this will be a non-magic AU fanfic, there will be characters you would not expect to find in the same era/period of time. Though I _have _attempted to keep things a tiny bit canon, everything, including characters ages and relationships will be explained throughout the story, so no worries~


	2. Chapter 2

"**W**ho is that? Do any of you know?"

"Who? The dirty-blonde by the door looks a lot like Lavender, skirts certainly short enough... wait, is that _Dean_ she's snogging? Bloody hell—!"

"Nononono. For goodness sake _no_. I'm taking about the boy in the center hall, in front of the clock with the baggy sweater and trunk. Looks as if he's never been in the castle before?"

"Huh. Don't think I've seen the likes of him in any of my classes."

"That's what I'm trying to _say_ here, Ronald!"

"Since when were you so interested in new kid's Hermione?"

X:-::x::-:X

Harry stood slack jawed before the ginormous grandfather clock. He could feel its tick-tocking vibrate throughout his body, becoming one with his own heart in accordance to the scheduled beating. Pale fingers clenched his sweater closer to his chest. It was a surreal feeling.

"Amazing isn't it?"

He started, dropping his bag _again, _and turned to face the girl beside him.

She gave him a shy smile, and reached out a soft looking hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Hermione Granger, second year Prefect at Hogwarts."

Harry let his eyes rove over her form as they shook hands.

She was pretty; in a bookish sort of way. Wavy caramel curls and a small, lithe form. She may have been described by others as completely ordinary if not for the large honey eyes that sparked with curiosity and a thirst for knowledge.

Harry didn't have to fake the smile that leapt to his lips. It was obvious she was a nice girl.

"Y-Yeah, hullo there." Harry licked his lips, still a little stuck from the ticking monument before him. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. Second year I suppose, not a Prefect—_whatever that is_."

She laughed and explained that a Prefect was a teacher's aid of sorts.

"Wait. You suppose? You're a transfer student, aren't you?" She released his palm with a raised brow.

Though it was phrased as a question there was little to no doubt in her polite tone.

"That's right," he said, slowly.

The second year Prefect looked him up and down as if analyzing his clothing and physical features would tell her all the answers she'd ever need of him. Somehow, he wouldn't be surprised if they did. "Then you'll likely be in Gryffindor."

Gryffindor? Sounded like some kind of mythical beast from a children's book than a… a way to categorize students in a school.

Then again, all Harry really knew of 'Hogwarts Secondary School for Gifted Children' was that, for whatever reason, they had decided to accept him into their little hub of minted aristocrats; a million-in-one-chance kind of scholarship. He still wasn't quite sure why'd they excepted _him _out of the thousands of better applicants.

"I'm not entirely sure how one even _becomes_ a Gryffindor." Harry admitted, shaking his head.

Hermione's smile widened to show stark white teeth, the front two slightly larger than the rest. "Well Harry, it seems we'll have to rectify that, won't we? I'll take you to the headmaster's office, it's just down the hall." She pointed to the left, a long corridor beside them. "He'll give you your Timetable and dormitory assignment and we'll see where you end up."

Harry's small smile remained as he followed the bouncing curls on their mission up and down massive stone staircases, his trunk and bag making him drag slightly behind.

He wasn't sure what to make of her words. _"We'll see where you end up." _had sounded as if wherever he might be 'placed' would dictate his life there at Hogwarts. A twittery sort of pitter-pat was echoing amongst in his insides. He mentally tried to shake his nerves away. He glanced around him in curiosity, appreciating the history around him as Hermione took him "just down the hall".

What had to be hundreds of paintings surrounded them, the design of the staircases allowing a viewing to the near top of the castle. Many of the pieces were portraits of elderly men and women in dull, expensive looking clothing—most likely alma mater's of the private school. They were framed by depictions of illustrious, flowing landscapes and colorful, exotic animals, a few—well—what he'd call _unique_ pieces placed sporadically along the four stone walls.

"I'll wait here." The prim voice was unexpected, but booked no further argument.

Harry blinked. They had stopped in front of what appeared to be a gargoyle. To the right of the ancient beast lay a miniature winding staircase that inferably lead to the headmaster's main office.

"You don't have to…Hermione," he paused briefly, it felt awkward to call the girl by her first name so familiarly. "I'm sure the headmaster will give me all the information I need."

Harry felt bad knowing he was keeping the girl from her friends, for she surely had some. She was too nice, too bright; in both senses of the word, not to have any.

Hermione faltered at his words, stared at his face for a moment, then glanced away. She began to worry her hands in front of her skirt.

"I didn't have anyone to show me around when I first came here," she admitted suddenly, after the hesitant pause. She looked back to him, and Harry was blown away by the steely compassion reflected plainly on her face.

She continued. "It was scary, and more than a little lonely." Her black mary jane's scuffed the stone floor nervously. "So I promised myself once I became Prefect this year I'd help anyone who looked like they were in need of it."

Harry resisted the urge to pat the girl's heavy shoulders. He found himself agreeing despite himself.

"It's my duty," she added, a successful grin spreading on her peach lips as he nodded.

With an awkward wave he left his luggage at her side and climbed the winding staircase, a warmth settling in his chest, wiping away the chill of apprehension that'd been there since he'd woken up that morning.

Perhaps if wouldn't be so bad here after all.

X:-::x::-:X

As soon as the heavy door to the office creaked open Harry knew something was wrong. Different. Off.

There were a group of teenage boys, all wearing the standard charcoal greys of the Hogwarts uniform; their backs to the door, bracing themselves against an dark cherry-wood desk. A boy sat in the middle of the group, a pair of crossed legs attached to what had to be the headmaster's desk chair.

He was tall, obviously, he could tell from the length of the guy's legs, and just as smartly dressed in his uniform as the rest of them. He had thick, dark hair brushed away from his face, a face Harry couldn't quite catch no matter which way he leaned from the open doorway.

The other boys surrounded him like a crowd of coiled snakes, close enough to hang off every word that their center-part might utter, yet far enough to not disrupt the bubble of-of what? Reverence? _Servitude_?

Whatever the aura was, it left a strange, pressing feeling in his chest Harry couldn't quite accurately describe.

A stocky blond suddenly leaned over to whisper something to the scraggly boy next to him, parting just wide enough from the circle to reveal what had to be one of the most beautiful boy's Harry had even seen in his admittedly lackluster life.

He sucked in a breath when the dark haired boy turned, and ebony met emerald.

_Cold black eyes staring into his own without mercy._

The warmth in his chest dispirited. Gone, like a pair of insipid lips blowing the steam off a cup of good brew.

Harry jerked involuntarily.

He stumbled forward gracelessly, grasping the arm of a blood-orange loveseat in surprise, his breathing suddenly short. Wait a minute. Why had he reacted that way? Why had he been struck with the sudden memory of his nightmare from the earlier morning?

Strange enough, it seemed the boy in the center of the room had had a similar involuntary reaction, but it was more of a winch; a pinch of the eyes, than an uncouth jerk of the limbs.

Pigmented, shapely lips opened, revealing an appealing tenor that barely reached over a whisper, and yet, even Harry had felt the urge to leap from his chair and disappear. But he felt somehow, instinctually, that the commanding drawl had not been for him.

"Everybody out."

Harry's eyes widened further from their initial state of shock.

_Oh no. _

The sickly dawn of familiarity felt sour and sludge-like in his throat. He knew—_he knew_ that boy! The thick, black curls; the red lips pulled back in a sinister grin. Those horrible coal irises, lit, and burning, desecrating everything in their path—

"Of course, Lord Riddle," The boys around him chorused gleefully.

* * *

><p>an: Thank you so much to my two first reviewers. **Krystal**, the insight and thoughtfulness of your review blew me away. I can assure you that Tom will not be little Mr. Sunshine in this fic, as I completely agree with your analysis of his character. He just wouldn't be Tom in my opinion if he was constantly grinning, surrounded by happy, content individuals, sucking on lemon drops. **inkdots**, you have no idea how much hope your words give! I'm still trying to find that emotional/descriptive balance and I will continue to work on that as I update this fic. Thank you everyone who is giving this a chance. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**_I_**_t was wrong_. The entire situation was utterly, irrevocably _wrong_. A gang of teenage boys huddled in the headmaster's office. Cackling and plotting amongst themselves. They seemed flighty, like little shadows, ready to throw the world into darkness.

There were six of them; coiled tight in a cultish circle around the large oval desk, heads bent so that they might whisper their cruel tricks into each others devilish ears.

At Riddle's order—and that was what it was—they filed out the door, one by one, like good little underlings.

"Fergus."

One of the boy's he'd first noticed; the short, straggly one with an unpleasant expression had paused next to his bent form, still clenching the arm of the loveseat like an anchor. Harry raised a questioning brow, despite the wobbling in his legs.

He was surprised to find the boy's murky brown eyes scouring him angrily, as if _he'd_ been the one to trespass on their little… meeting.

"I'll see you back in the common room." Riddle's polite tone had turned curt.

A warning.

The dark-haired boy gave him one last cutting glare, flitting over his ill-fitting clothes in obvious distaste before he followed the rest of his friends out the door.

Harry could feel the attention switch focus to him, an unnatural chill crystalizing his bones.

_Riddle_, stoic and straight-backed; the young man sat with a simple, charming smile gracing his handsome face. All straight white teeth and full red lips, he grinned disarmingly at Harry. "How can I help you, Mr… "

Harry closed his eyes and sees chemical, hospital-white; a skinny thirteen year old bent over him, the faded bleak grey uniform somehow too small on his corpse-like form.

Being dangled over the open rooftop of Stonewall High.

A taunting, crazed grin stretched across gaunt skin as bone-white fingers unlocked from his neck, dropping his young, starved body from the four-story ledge.

The boy… it was him, it had to be.

He opened his eyes. Polite jet blinked back at him expectantly.

But it wasn't.

"Potter. Harry Potter," he gave, haltingly.

Riddle's dark eyes seemed to gleam with something unfamiliar as he heard the emerald-eyed boy's name, but it was gone in the split of a second.

"Tom Riddle. Third Year and current Head Boy of Hogwarts, a pleasure Mr. Potter." Riddle said smoothly, as if he was used to introducing himself to people who hadn't heard of him.

They didn't shake hands, but Harry felt as if they'd just signed some kind of invisible contract, as he echoed the boy's sentiments.

Tom's skin wasn't sickly, nor pale, but full; the barest hint of a youthful blush across his high cheekbones. His jaw was strong and square, not thin and bruised. The thick, sable locks on his head glistening in health rather than oil. His straight broad shoulders and long, crossed legs gave off the aura of confidence and superior ease.

This boy was… well, he was beautiful. As strange as it was to admit. And the psychotic child who'd nearly killed him, wasn't. Hadn't been.

"I need to speak to the headmaster." He swallowed, scratching a numb tickle on the back of his neck.

Riddle replied smoothly to his unasked question.

"Professor Dumbledore will return presently, I can assure you."

He acted as if his presence in the elder's office was nothing out of the ordinary. Like he _belonged_ there; lounging still and tall as if posing for an official portrait. "If you'd just wait here." The disarming smile widened.

Harry found himself nodding in a daze, falling into the putrid-colored cushions in confusion. He felt strange. Like he was being guided. Nudged along just so—yet still in control of himself, so that it had been his idea all along.

"Head boy… is that like a Prefect? No, you must be above them somehow, _Head_ Boy and all that… probably help delegate their duties or something… " He murmured his trail of thought, almost to himself.

"You are correct, Mr. Potter."

Harry blinked at the self-satisfied tone.

It was as if Riddle was a teacher and himself a student, who'd managed to get to the end of the chapter with his help. It left him with a prickling feeling of belittled adolescence.

Staring back at the picture of innocence before him he opened his mouth, licking his dry lips:

"Why did those other boys call you 'Lord Riddle'?"

Riddle's eyes glittered. "Simple. They know their place."

Harry started.

"What?"

The door behind him gave a high-pitched creek, and opened to reveal a concerned beget curious looking Hermione poking her head through the doorway. "Harry?"

He jumped up, scrabbling to face the door, feeling as though he'd just gotten caught in the middle of a private encounter for the second time that day, though now _he_ was the one being interrupted. He shifted to glance back at Riddle, teeth clenched in annoyance—at who? _Hermione_?

"Hermione! I was just spe—" The words died in his throat, his green eyes widening in disbelief.

Riddle was gone.

Not even a press of weight remained in the leather of the throne-like desk chair the boy had been perched in just moments before. Even the other boys had left bits of their presence, a few books knocked open on the floor, a candy dish likely in an emptier state that when it'd been left.

But not Riddle. He had completely disappeared.

Just like magic.

"Well now, it seems our new student was able to find his way to me sufficiently; no doubt with your kind assistance, Miss. Granger."

"Professor Dumbledore!"

X:-::x::-:X

Hermione took stalk of the tension in his shoulders as he thumped down the spiral staircase, honey eyes smoothing over the tired bend of his back and glazed-over expression on his face.

"Did something happen, Harry? Before we spoke with the headmaster?"

Harry found his feet stuck to the last step, only able to stare blankly into Hermione's kind, curious face. Speechless.

"I saw some older boys leave pretty quick after you'd headed up," she said in a rush, an irritated red growing across her creamy neck, "—they looked like they were from Slytherin. Horrid boys, really! So juvenilely impudent just because they happen to come from well-off parents that make a ridiculous amount in 'donations' to the school every year."

She reached for his duffle bag. "Ignore whatever they might have said to you, Harry." Her lips pursed. "They're just spoiled little boys that have never had the humbling experience of someone telling them 'no' before."

Harry mentally shook his head in bemusement at her protective countenance. "I'm fine Hermione, nothing happened. Just a little drained. Long way from London station to get here, you know."

Hermione's strict expression turned soft, almost motherly. He stared at her for a bit before returning it with a small, real one of his own. He had a feeling he'd just become her… project. He shook his head again, in real-time. He had decidedly mixed feelings about it.

Hermione brought him to the Gryffindor tower, the dormitory he'd been assigned.

The headmaster, an… unique older man by the name of Dumbledore, had explained to him patiently that rather than separate buildings built a hop, skip and a jump away from campus, the founders of Hogwarts; Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff respectively, had planed on building the dormitories within the school to promote bonds amongst the students and teachers.

Hermione was also a resident of Gryffindor, she'd told him with a small smile of pride.

Having reached the tower they stepped through the door-sized portrait of a rather large woman, near the size of his uncle he'd dare say, and Hermione pointed out the second year boy's dormitories they lay to the right of a cozy looking common room.

Harry crossed the sparsely populated room quickly, not enjoying the curious stares burning into his back as his old trunk clunked along the burgundy rug behind him.

He had just gone through the door and placed his trunk next to the only bed with unused bedsheets when Hermione coughed lightly, her feet stopped just before the edge of the doorway. She held out his bag.

"Rules," she firmly enunciated… but was that the girlish hue of pink rising on her cheeks?

Harry hummed in acknowledgment. "Alright Hermione, I couldn't have gotten anywhere without you."

He attempted to ignore the similar pop of blood vessels creeping up his own neck as she gave him an hesitant, awkward hug goodbye before walking over to a group of teenagers that sat in front of a old-fashioned wood fireplace.

Her friends, of course. Harry knew she would have them.

A lanky looking ginger gives him a distrusting survey, not unlike the boy—Fegus, from earlier. Hermione shakes her head at him, probably telling them of her whereabout for the last hour or so.

He raises his hands in mercy, acknowledging the beginning tendrils of jealousy in the ginger's expression, and ducks down to grab his bags, slipping into the second-year boy's dormitories.

There are five four-poster beds spread in a circle, each with their own thick mattress, and creamy sheets, the ends of the beds facing a smaller version of the brick fireplace set in the center of the room.

It was surprisingly homey for a private school dormitory. And bright, he noted, pressing his fingers against the thick, red and gold comforter depicted a lion caught in ferocious mid-roar, claws spread and ready to rip into whatever enemy may rise from the depths of his imagination.

He thought of the Slytherin dormitories as he collapsed against the soft sheets; clean afternoon sunshine reflecting through the curved window onto his bed, warming the sheets. His last thought before his weary subconscious claimed him was the wonder if they were also done in rich crimsons and glittering gold.

a/n: Thank you for your reviews and words of encouragement. I plan on making the next chapter a bit longer, but we'll see how that goes! :)


	4. Chapter 4

"**H**arry?"

His head jerked at the sound of his name, said softly with obvious concern. It was strange to hear it that way.

He'd been staring at the cluster of Slytherin's in the opposite corner of the cafeteria, the _Great Hall _the other Gryffindor's had called it, his surprisingly scrumptious plate of fish and chips growing cool in front of him.

No matter how long he stared at the group of green-tied teenagers the dark, glittering eyes and almost unnaturally charming smile never stood out from their plain, animated faces.

Hermione was giving him a curious look now but her attention was switched as the lanky ginger who'd woken him for lunch plopped into the seat beside her, dropping an arm across her shoulders. "Hey M'ione."

The freckled boy immediately reached for the basket of sausage links in front of him, spearing them by the thirds with his silver fork, wasting no time to dig in.

With gusto.

"Good afternoon, Ronald," Hermione said with a touch of exasperated fondness.

The redhead looked up from stuffing his cheeks to give Harry a semi-aloof glance. "Potter."

"Weasley." Harry returned politely.

Apparently the guy still thought he had _intentions_ to the female Prefect beside him, despite having given no evidence to institute such reasoning. Plus—Hermione had likely already explained she was helping him familiarize himself to the school. _Plus,_ she had sought him out first.

He tried a harmless grin at the teenager who acted as if he was starving in mid-zombie apocalypse, who in turn gave him a hesitant, but not altogether unpleasant one in return.

Harry had slept away his entire first night at Hogwarts, the soft sheets of his four-poster far too enticing for him not to succumb to their will.

It was now a lazy Sunday afternoon, and he'd been escorted to the Great Hall; Ronald Weasley, the other boy had introduced himself, having brought his sloth-ish body down to the common room at Hermione's demand.

Having run off after fulling her request, the Weasley had shown up mid-way through their late lunch mumbling something about a "detention" under a man with a "bloody beak for a nose". Whatever that was supposed to mean.

There was a tense, awkward silence now that the three of them were all together like this, Hermione and Ron talking softly amongst themselves, the brunette occasionally pointing out a stray fact about the private school for Harry's benefit.

"How'd you end up at here at Hogwarts anyway, Harry?" She suddenly asked him, causing the fried fish he'd been guiding to his open mouth to pause half-way.

"I won the Twi-wizard scholarship," he answered honestly. It felt a bit off to saw he'd 'won' it, but, well, he supposed that's what he'd done. Of sorts.

It really was a strange sounding title for an academic scholarship, but Harry wasn't about to bite the hand that had fed him. Fed him well, he thought, as he thickly cut, juicy halibut at the end of his fork finally finished its journey to his lips.

Ron whistled briefly, a new appraising glint in his eyes.

"They only give that scholarship to one student every thirty years or something, but nobody knows bloody well how the guy gives the money selects who gets it."

Hermione blanked at the boy beside behind her, lips parted and hanging ever so slightly open like she wasn't accustomed to him having knowledge of such things.

From the bored, long-suffering expression on his tanned face when Hermione had brought up their previous chemistry lab results earlier, Harry could only assume it was the truth.

"Explains why you got put in the Gryffindor dorms though, scholarship kid n' all." Ron nodded, as if answering some inner question to himself. "I'm here for my expert lacrosse skills," he flexed a toned forearm with a smirk, the slightly bulging muscle straining against the thin fabric of his collared shirt. "M'ione's the complete package. She's been here since primary; total brain."

Harry hummed in acknowledgment, holding back a chuckle at the girl's flush of embarrassment. He reached for a crisp, his eyes slipping from the pseudo -just friends' before him to the Slytherin's table once more.

They all wore their uniforms prim and proper, the thick dark fabric looking strangely more expensive and of high quality then the other students, their backs straight as they picked at the pre-made cafeteria food with shiny, sterling cutlery.

"Do either of you know of a Tom Riddle?" He asked abruptly, unable to silence his growing curiosity. "He goes here—to Hogwarts… and might have mentioned something about being Head Boy?"

The two across from him instantly stilled, the sudden freeze of their limbs looking instinctive rather than purposeful. They glanced at each other warily.

"What about the guy?" Ron huffed, obviously wanting to change the topic of conversation as he turned back to his sausages. His face turned, eyes full of some emotion Harry couldn't quite discern.

"Tom is first in his year at Hogwarts." Hermione offered in contrast, the sheen of respect glaring in her purposefully light tone.

Harry blinked at the two of them, unsure what to make of their responses.

Well, certainly not what he'd expected; at least from Ron. Riddle had been nothing but disarmingly charming when he'd encountered him in the headmaster's office. Mysterious disappearance aside there hadn't been anything noticeably off about the boy.

Despite his initial thoughts, he found himself drifting to the unpleasant memories he'd tried to forget all those years ago; brought upon by the angelic-looking boy who'd asked him to wait for the headmaster's presence so assuredly, looking for all a young aristocrat, used to those obeying his every whim.

"Where did you meet Tom Riddle, Harry?" Hermione's voice brought him back to the present. "I thought you went to bed after we met with Professor Dumbledore the other day." She gave him a confused look.

"Oh." Harry stalled, trying to think of a place and time he could have met the innocent, yet strangely unnerving boy, other than the truth. He still wasn't inclined to reveal Riddle's strange vanishing act to others. It felt like the moment had been inexplicably private. His.

He shook his head mentally.

He eventually came up that the Head Boy had met him at the Hogwarts station, after he'd exited the glistening red train, Dumbledore having giving the older boy orders to help guide him on his way to the school.

The lie felt sour and ugly on his tongue, especially when the two of them had been nothing but kind, if not a bit wary in Ron's case, to his foreign presence in their school so far.

"He was… pleasant enough, if a bit arrogant," he added as a lazy afterthought, suddenly not too concerned with convincing them. He wanted to make friends here. Even if…

Even if he might not deserve them.

Hermione glanced at the silent Ron, solid in his act of the obtuse being, and heaved a sigh of exasperation.

"There's just something not quite right with the way he… " Hermione trailed off, her voice growing hushed as she look up, attention of something just off Harry's shoulder.

He turned from his seat, a stretch of wood in a half-oval shape attached to the eight-seater, and blinked at the conceited-looking blond who'd stopped behind his chair. Presumably on his way out of the Great Hall.

Harry recognized him from the Slytherin table.

"Hmm, now what do we have here boys? A new baby Gryffindor is it? How _precious_." Harry started at the cultured voice, thin lips pursed in a taunting sneer.

He didn't even know the kid, what was with the sudden unwarranted aggression pointed his way?

The blond tilted his head back further, sneer stretched to a mockery of a welcoming smile. "Too bad your presence will only continue to dredge the pussy-cat's house into further, unsalvageable mediocrity." His little pack of cronies cackled behind him.

Harry followed the rude boy's gaze with a grimace as it drifted down his faded hand-me-downs—he'd had yet to change into his Hogwarts uniform—in poorly veiled disgust.

"It's quite sad, really."

Hermione and Ron stiffened behind him.

Harry just continued to stare at the blond in bemused disbelief.

He'd had boys twice the size of the skinny, minted boy before him chase him around fenced-in school yards. Attempts to stuff his head down dirty high school toilets a near daily basis at Stonewall.

Harry folded his arms, crossing his legs primly, the three-sizes-too-big jeans probably making him look ridiculous.

The sudden image of Riddle at the headmaster's desk pressed against the back of his eyes. .

"And… _you are_?" Harry tried to drawl, trying to twist his voice just as haughty and pretentious as the boy before him. He ignored the memory of Riddle until it disappeared; he'd didn't need to be making comparisons to their positioning while he was attempting to instill an aura of indifferent superiority.

"W-Wha—" The blond took a staggered back step, as if his insolence had been a physical blow to his person. He looked murderous, and somewhat confused. "I'm Draco. Draco_ Malfoy_."

Harry tilted his head. "Sorry, can't say I've had the pleasure of such a name in my, admittedly short, life."

The _Malfoy,_ as he'd accentuated, seemed shocked speechless, an angry, embarrassed flush painting his bleach white skin a ruddy red.

"And _who_ are _you_ then?" he near whispered, molten grey attempting to inflict pain on Harry in the most intense, horrific way he could ever dare imagine.

Harry shot out a hand, holding it out straight in front of the bastards pointed face.

"Harry Potter. Second year. Orphan—and most recently—baby Gryffindor of Hogwart's." He almost grinned, despite himself.

He'd hadn't realized he'd missed this. Bullies. He could deal with bullies. Handsome boys that gave him horrible flashbacks of his youth and mysteriously disappeared on him mid-conversation? Too much of a headache.

The Malfoy seemed to come back into himself at Harry's mocking, self-deprecating introduction, and slapped Harry's offer of friendship away. The loud, angry _clap_ echoed throughout the cafeteria, pulling more eyes to their table.

He continued his trek out of the Great Hall in a rushed stomp, his own posse of Slytherin's stumbling after him, throwing Harry menacing, promising glares over their shoulders.

"Have your disgustingly wealthy father arrange a meeting for tea, Draco, I'd love to express how you're doing with your schooling." Harry called after him cheerfully.

Harry's almost grin become insuppressible at the answering slam of the towering, twin oak doors.

The brunette and ginger across from him were watching him in twin, gaping expressions. Complete shock reflected clearly in both of their eyes. Hermione's soon gave way to sorrow, her lips purse in pity.

Harry carefully didn't grimace at her. He didn't want her pity.

"You're parents… "

"Dead." Harry was swift to change his indifferent tone at the sharpness of her flinch. "Sorry—Hermione, it's just… it's been a long time. They were gone a month or so after I was born. I don't have many memories of them, so I can't really miss them much."

Well, that wasn't the entire truth. He felt their lack of presence in his life most harshly around the holiday season, and most poignantly on the days closest to his birthday.

But that didn't matter.

"Still, mate. I'm sorry for your loss." Weasley leaned forward, as if preparing himself to grab the teary-eyed Hermione who'd suddenly looked like she wanted to jump over the lunch table and wrap Harry in an all-consuming motherly hug of smothering.

"No problem, Weasley."

"Name's Ronald, Harry." The ginger offered his hand, a truce-telling grin wide on his freckled face.

"Ron, then." They shook hands, the taller clapping a welcoming hand to his shoulder. "Welcome to Hogwarts Harry." He winked.

As Harry sat in the lightly-populated cafeteria, surrounded in the light cacophony of innocent laughter and the clink of metal hitting porcelain, he felt that warmth from the previous day fill his chest with a heavy, protective feeling he didn't ever want to leave.

His green eyes became embarrassingly damp as he watched the two across of him argue against what would be the most appropriate way to spend that Sunday evening—showing Harry the around the castle and point out the location of all his classes in preparation of his first day tomorrow—or playing frisbee by the lake. He guessed his godfather had been right all along.

Perhaps sharing real, personal truths about oneself may help you to get real friends in return.

a/n: I tried to make Harry's POV stronger and more relatable in this chapter (which ended up not being much longer than the previous ones, sorry lol) seeing as how he's the centric character. I think I made progress with this chapter, though and I'm actually happy with how it turned out. Please let me know if you think the characterization has improved, if you will. Also, yes, Draco's interaction with Harry was a cliche, actually this whole chapter was kinda a cliche, but I needed that to happen for future plot stuff reasons. Thank you for your views, follows and words of encouragement. :)


	5. Chapter 5

"You're taking Advanced Culinary Arts?"

"I've had a lot of practice." Harry yawned midway through his reply. Why was he so exhausted? It's not like he'd done anything strenuous.

It was strange, seeing as it was now late Sunday and the last time he'd had trouble sleeping was Friday night, because of his nightmares… but then he'd slept most of Saturday away, anyway… ?

He really had no business being so tired all the time.

"Too bad mate, you've got Snape first thing tomorrow." Ron leaned across the gap between their beds, handing Harry back his timetable. "Wouldn't wish that KO combo of a Monday morning and that greasy git on my worst enemy," he grimaced, finishing the buttons of his plaid sleep-shirt.

Harry recollected the 'beak nosed git' Ron had spoke of at lunch, quite passionate in his suffering if his recount of his detention, "_He had me sweep the entire west wing! The classrooms there haven't been used in ages—it was bloody _disgusting_!" _was anything to go by. He wasn't sure exactly how bad a chemistry teacher could be, but he was certain Ron was over-exaggerating.

The ginger had certainly embellishedHarry's earlier interaction with Malfoy. Excitedly retelling it to whomever missed the 'epic showdown' as soon as the trio had clambered up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room.

He stepped into the pale grey pajamas he'd found folded on a shelf in the bathroom—extra's provided by the school he'd been told, in case of emergency. Harry wasn't entirely sure if his reason constituted as a 'emergency' but he really hadn't wanted to sleep in Dudley's hand-me-downs one more night, and he didn't feel comfortable enough to sleep in his usual boxer-shorts-and-that's-it-folks amongst a bunch of strangers. He was certain the other boys wouldn't mind if he wore their emergency pajama stash to bed his first night.

"You thinking of going out for a sport, Harry?" Neville asked him, sudden, and somewhat hesitant. He was another light-haired second year, a bit timid for a fifteen year old though, Harry had observed when they'd been introduced. "Tryouts for all the main teams are Wednesday."

"I—" He stopped mid-reply, and thought for a moment. Sports? Harry? Harry playing a sport?

Neville was leaning against his own bed, and glanced at him curiously as he untied the laces of his muddy boots. His fingers were stained a mossy green. Most likely at Hogwarts for some sort of 'plant' scholarship, if there was one, seeing as he was in Gryffindor… botany maybe?

He hummed mentally, mulling over the innocent question he'd been asked.

He certainly wasn't in horrible shape, a bit on the thin side and admittedly not to be the tallest boy in their year, but 'Harry hunting' had gave him decently toned muscles no matter how… stingy… his relatives had been.

"I'm not sure I'd do well." He settled on, honestly.

"Oh, you'd love it Harry! Lacrosse is the best sport in the _world,_" Ron near hollered, his bedposts wiggling with the enthusiasm of his hand movements. "And… if you're not into _that_ Hogwarts has one of the best rugby teams in the district. Unfortunately, Malfoy—_the git—_is on the team, but don't let that stop you from trying out. Just imagine… "

The ginger gave a hearty sigh, and fell back dramatically against his mussed bed sheets, arms folded behind his head. "There can't be anything better than 'accidentally' shoving your cleat in Malfoy's smug face during practice. Better than _girls,_ Harry," he grinned, eyes closed, clearly in full day-dream mode.

Harry snorted. He'd finished cleaning his glasses with a thin scrap of floral cloth he'd filched from Petunia's sewing basket, and placed them on the bedside table.

_'Make sure you don't mention that to Malfoy, kid might get the wrong idea,'_ He thought to himself with a smirk, and climbed into bed, slipping under the warm sheets.

They were so lovely, their silkiness seemed to sink into ever crevice of his weary body as he settled himself on the thick mattress. It pressed against his spine. Fitting to him perfectly, and electing a groan of near-pleasure from him. Gods, It felt _divine_.

"Alright there, mate?" Seamus sat up from his bed across from Harry's. He sounded like he was battling equal measures of concern and bemusement.

"Don't get _too_ comfortable I beg ya! I don't know what your previous dormitories were like, but you're sharing this one amongst the five of us now," he continued with a good-natured chuckle.

Whoops.

A flush of embarrassments warmed his cheeks. Perhaps he'd been a bit too vocal in his appreciation of the Gryffindor beds.

The other second year's huffed and gave stuttered laughs at the irish boy's words for a few moments, and then there was a peaceful quiet as everyone settled down for the night.

Harry rolled over, head tilted towards the faint light that shined through the glass panes close to his bed, an inviting, curved seat jutted out just bellow the window. He could see himself sitting on the ledge, his maths textbook open in front of him as he watched the sun glint over the feathered hills. It was a comfortable daydream.

As he observed the paleness of the moon with heavy eyes he was struck—suddenly—with the image of unscarred alabaster skin, peaking from the crisp collared fabric of a Hogwarts blazer. The dark crevices carved into the sphere a metaphor for a shadowed brow, intelligent jet surveying him with polite curiosity. He blinked, startled at the sudden image that popped unbidden into his mind.

Riddle hadn't crossed his thoughts in hours.

Being with Hermione and Ron made him forgot what he'd seen the previous day. Their cheerful naivety mesmerizing in all it's innocence. Harry had been pulled in, despite his prior awkwardness with the two.

Even Malfoy's sudden, unprecedented hostility hadn't brought his climbing mood low. Despite that, now, in the quiet lateness of the hour he found his thoughts once against seeking out that mysterious boy and his overwhelming persona. He was naturally charming and Harry, now able to reflect, was ashamed to admit once the boy had focused his attention on him he'd been drawn in too. It was just so _present_, so undeniable.

—_so unlike_ Malfoy's mocking attempts at projecting superiority.

He pictured the two boys now, both from the Slytherin dorms from Riddle's identical green tie, comparing them in his mind. There were opposites, truly.

Malfoy was the true personification of the spoilt youth trope, while Riddle had been the picture of idle perfection, a charming specimen straight out of a cliche Hallmark chick-flick.

Malfoy gave off a rather sad _'Notice me, I need the attention my father won't rightly devote to me,'_ aura that was nearly deafening. Painfully obvious to Harry in the blond's patterned outbursts. He was putting on a brave face, desperate for friends, for people to recognize his importance as a human being. A pitiable act more than anything else.

Riddle's presence was more subtle in contrast, yet glaring in it's indefinability. Harry shuddered.

It was unnerving, honestly, the more he thought on it. There was a reason he's mind hadn't simply dismissed their interaction, folded it under 'unimportant', completely forgotten in some part of his brain.

_"Simple. They know their place." _

Boy's that were harmless, without any sort of plan or means of manipulation, did not look right at home at the absent the headmaster's desk, and hold secret meetings there with other boy's their age.

The 'too-perfect' smile clear in his mind, he was suddenly quite sure Malfoy wasn't the only one putting on an act to fool the unsuspecting.

He bit his lip, and glanced away from the fullness of the moon and curled further into his sheets. He nibbled at the thin flesh, his thoughts churning, until it broke and he tasted iron.

And he'd been fooled indeed.

X:-::x::-:X

For one who prided himself on his self-control, it was unprecedented that he find himself resisting the riotous blaze of pure, unadulterated _hatred_ he hadn't felt so undeniable in its ferocity since he was thirteen years old.

He recognized the messy-haired urchin instantly.

One of his underlings had stopped next to the abhorrent _thing_ Dumbledore called interior decorating, the green-eyed boy clutching at the arm of the chair in the aftermath of meeting his eyes for the first time since opening the door on his little meeting. Can't go about plotting world domination just anywhere, anymore, he thought, his expression remaining inscrutable.

"I'll see you back in the common room," he ordered curtly, knowing he would be obeyed. It wasn't often he'd have to ask twice.

Avery quickly gave up his idiotic act of 'bodyguard' at the lick of warning in his tone and soon left the office so he'd be alone with Potter.

Recognition. Those verdant eyes had flinched with it as they met his. He paid no mind and continued his act of indifference effortlessly.

"How can I help you, Mr… " he was unsuspectingly polite, letting his words drift with the tilt of his head, as if he could possibly forget the name-the _boy_, that had haunted his nightmares for the past three years of his life.

"Potter. Harry Potter," the boy replied slowly, eyes confused and unsure as they soaked in his act of indifference. Unsure of… Tom.

Tom knew his mask had tilted, skewed, for that split-second. He burned with the familiarity of the boy's name as they introduced themselves properly. It was a name that he'd heard repeated, and spoke himself what felt like innumerable amount of times, burned into his soul with an angry, insatiable bloodlust.

A lust that had been controlled and packed away, the still-lit ashes an insidious reminder of his disastrous youth.

But now, as he watched Tom in all the refinement of his carefully crafted facade, Harry had fallen for it just like everybody else. He wasn't special, this mere _speck_ of meaningless flesh before him. The very boy who'd inspired the construction of the mask in the first place…

It gave Tom a near pleasurable rush of conviction. An unparalleled confidence in his skills.

He'd been right all along, of course. The green-eyed urchin was nothing like him. When the boy had spoken again, asked him a admittedly troubling question he played it off with controlled ease.

"Simple." He knew his expression had darkened, became ruthless for just a second. Daring the Potter boy to see the truth so obvious in front of him. "They know their place." He almost bared his teeth, he was so ready, so willing to 'take care' of the last evidence of his past that sat so unknowingly before him.

It was now a late Sunday evening. He sat in his usual chair, the closest seat to the fire in the brisk climate of the Slytherin dungeons. He tapped one tapered finger against his chin.

Tom had departed for breakfast that morning, surrounded in a protective, mindless bubble of his _associates_ as usual. Small shards of something that was pricked at him, an not-anxiety, but not, irritating. But Potter hadn't turned up, and the professors he'd greeted along the way to the Great Hall hadn't viewed him in any way dissimilar. No dawning horror of disgust and fear upon his form.

He closed his eyes and allowed a harsh breath of pent up frustration.

No. He closed his eyes slowly, a cast of indifference, before opening them again to observe the rest of the long pale fingers that lay on the arm of the velveteen armchair.

He had the self control not to hurt anyone. He wasn't that pathetic little boy anymore, he had control. Rationality.

Tom folds the fingers into a clenched fist, his lips twisting in what he new was a mockery of a innocent grin. Ah yes, he certainly had the self control not to hurt anyone.

At least… not in the public eye.

The boys sitting quietly on the couch across him stiffening at the rare picture of Tom Riddle, their Lord, looking almost _gleeful_.

—- —- — —

a/n: thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed a bit of my Tom's POV. He's human and magic less so I wanted to make him more vulnerable to his emotions. This Tom isn't a full out psychopath, but he definitely has issues, but we'll get into that later. Thanks agains, I'm hoping by the time I finish this fanfic I'll have improved as a writer as well. :)


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